“My grandfather was a genius,” Kelly snapped. “A visionary.”
Hale stepped inside the elevator, secretly wishing the man would have the nerve to add “a thief.”
“That stone is the Kelly Corporation’s signature piece,” Kelly continued, “and it’s not going to stay in a hole in the ground. Not on my watch.”
The doors slid closed, and Hale couldn’t help but study the reflection of Oliver Kelly the Third—the handmade suit and full-Windsor knot. Antique cuff links and Italian calfskin shoes, all of which had one purpose: to make sure no one ever mistook him for ordinary. All at the age of twenty-nine. Hale might not have hated him so much had it not been like looking in a fun-house mirror—at who he might have become if he hadn’t been home two years before on the night when Kat came to steal his Monet.
“Yes, Mr. Kelly,” Hale said slowly, still taking the image in. “I understand completely.”
“Good.” When the elevator doors opened, Kelly turned and extended a hand toward Marcus. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Jones. I appreciate your time. But as you can see, our paperwork is in order, and our security”—he gestured at the showroom on the main level of the building, its gleaming cases and cameras and guards—“it is the best it can possibly be, so I’m afraid you’ve made the trip for nothing.”
“Indeed.” Hale reached to take the hand that was offered, held it a little longer than Kelly was perhaps expecting, squeezed it a little tighter. “What do you think, Mr. Jones?”
Marcus let his gaze sweep around the room. His voice was stoic and cold when he said, “I think the last time I heard that was at the Henley.”
Hale watched Oliver Kelly the Third shudder at the words. The color faded in his cheeks, and his mouth drew into a thin hard line. “The Henley?”
“Oh yes,” Hale said. “They assured us that no one could ever steal Angel Returning to Heaven from their walls, and we believed them. But we were all wrong on that account, weren’t we, Mr. Kelly?”
Honesty was a rare thing in Oliver Kelly’s business. People negotiated. Dealers lied. He wasn’t exactly sure what to do when faced with someone so willing to admit a mistake, so he didn’t do anything—he just stood, waiting.
“And, of course, they thought their paperwork was in order too, and now…” Hale trailed off, then risked a glance at Oliver Kelly the Third. “Well, I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to comment, but let’s just say they’re still waiting for a check. And with a piece like the Cleopatra Emerald—with its cultural and monetary significance—”
“It’s not cursed,” Kelly said automatically.
“Of course not. But if you don’t mind”—Hale placed his hands behind his back, smiled warmly—“Mr. Jones would like to start with the basement.”
“And the cameras on this level?” Hale asked twenty minutes later.
“The same as the level before,” the director of security said from his place at Mr. Kelly’s right side.
Kelly watched as Hale took copious notes. He snapped hundreds of pictures.
“And these windows?” Hale asked. “They’re monitored by…?”
“Glass break detectors at fifteen yard intervals.”
“Bulletproof?”
“Of course.” The security director sounded almost offended.
“Excellent.” Hale took yet another picture, then consulted his clipboard one more time. “Then I believe all that remains is the vault. The model number on that again is…”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jones,” Kelly said, “but I distinctly remember providing that information in our quarterly report.”
“Yes,” Hale stepped in to answer. “And last quarter, the Cleopatra Emerald was scheduled to stay safely on the other side of the world, so forgive us if we visit the subject again.” He turned to the security director. “The model on this door sensor…”
“Helix 857J,” the man said with no emotion.
“I assure you, gentlemen,” Mr. Kelly interrupted again. “We at the Kelly Corporation know exactly how valuable our emerald is, and we have taken every precaution to protect—”
“Your emerald?” Hale tilted his head. “Does everyone agree about that?”
The man flushed. “Well, of course. Who else could…”
Hale turned to Kelly, stared straight into his eyes, and said, “Tell me about Constance Miller.”
“The subject of Ms. Miller is a matter for our legal depart-ment—not security. I can assure you that the Cleopatra’s so-called history has no bearing on her safety.”
“Yes.” Hale smiled. “We heard that from the Henley too.”
“Listen here, Mr.…”
“Knightsbury,” Hale provided, but Kelly talked on.
“Constance Miller is a recluse. She’s old.”
“Does she have friends?” Hale asked.
“Friends who could help her steal an emerald ?” Kelly laughed as if it were the funniest thing he’d heard in ages. “I think not.”
“Family?”
“Yes. A grandson, I think.”
“Does she have a claim, sir?”
Kelly scoffed. “Not a legitimate one. The best courts in two countries have said so for a dozen years.”
“Twelve years is a long time to want something, Mr. Kelly.”
“Yes, but—”
“A very long time to hear no.”
But no was not a word that Oliver Kelly the Third had ever heard. To hear it for a dozen years seemed more than the young man could understand.
Kelly dropped his voice and finished, “Perhaps I should have my secretary put together a file.”
“Yes.” Hale smiled. “Perhaps you should.”
“Excuse me, miss. May I help you?”
Kat didn’t turn at the question. Two feet away, there was a case full of rubies and diamonds—a pendant rumored to have belonged to Catherine the Great and a pair of earrings featured in a movie starring Audrey Hepburn. But those things didn’t really matter to Kat. Kat was far more concerned about the one case that was empty.
“What goes in here?” she asked the salesman.
“Oh, I’m afraid that space is reserved for a very special—Don’t do that,” the man said when Kat propped one hand on the case (and fingered the hydraulic base and titanium stand with the other).